Steal My Heart
by carryonmy-waywardson
Summary: Tom Hanniger has returned to his hometown of Harmony, after ten years of being absent, to sell his parents' mines, but on the way meets a drifter named Clay Miller - who's searching for his sister.
1. Chapter 1

Tom Hanniger was sitting in his usual spot in the bar - the corner booth, that was the farthest away from the drunks, and the rest of the crowd. He didn't want to be a part of it, and the rest of the town didn't seem to mind him being off in the corner, by himself. In fact, he knew they preferred it that way, because ever since the killings in the mines ten years before, everyone had blamed him. Why? Mostly because his family had owned the mines, and the fact that he was no where to be found after the murders.

The rumor was quickly extinguished, after the real killer had been shot to death, but whenever Tom rolled into Harmony, everyone looked at him different, muttering things to others as he drove by. He could understand his _family_ being blamed for the incidents, but Tom being singled out because he'd just witnessed a life-altering event? It was complete bullshit.

He mulled it over the bottle of Jack the bartender had set on his table - Tom knew it was only because the old man didn't want to keep coming back to his table, that he didn't want to look at Tom anymore than he had to. And yeah, he _shouldn't_ be drinking after his stint in the crazy house, but he thought what the hell; He wasn't being checked on every ten minutes, and being forced to take his medicine anymore, so he thought it was alright.

But the fact was, he was **still **popping the pills the doctors had given him, just to suppress the memories, and to keep his mind from going back to the time he wished, more than anything, he could just forget. But whenever Tom didn't feel like taking those god awful pills, he would come here, to the local bar, and drink until he couldn't remember his own name.

And that was what he was doing when Clay Miller walked in, his tall frame shadowing above a vast majority of the men there. Tom gave him a few glances, before picking up the bottle of whiskey and, sloppily, pouring himself another glass. The bottle felt light in Tom's hand, and he slammed it back onto the table; the noise making the entire bar turn silent.

Annoyed, Tom looked up and glared at a few people sitting at the bar, making them turn their attention back to the drinks they were sipping seconds before. "That's what I thought," Tom slurred, and analyzed his own words, thinking that he had drank one too many glasses of booze, and that maybe he should stop.

He was in the middle of debating on staying and finishing off the bottle, or just giving up and going home, when he felt a presence next to the table.

"Ben, I swear to_ God_, if you harass me one more time about selling the fuck-" Tom looked up, seeing the confused face of the young man standing before him. He felt bad about assuming it was Ben, and shook his head, smiling at the man softly.

"Sorry, didn't mean ta say that.. thought you were someone else." Tom's words were slurred, more so than before, and he decided to give up on drinking. The man he was speaking to just chuckled softly, and Tom watched as his large hands unfolded a piece of paper.

"My name is Clay," his voice was soft, yet gruff, and Tom could sense he was hurting, "My sister came up here a few weeks ago, and she hasn't come back." Clay's voice faltered as he spoke, and his eyes cast down at the picture of his sister, and the words that fell under it - stating Whitney's name, date of birth, appearance, and when she was last seen.

"Lemme see the paper." Tom held his hand out to Clay, and watched as he reluctantly handed it over. Turning the page around, Tom's eyes glanced over the page, going from the picture to the paragraph, but spending more time on the picture.

_"Please don't do this,"_ Tom heard a voice mutter in his head, and shut his eyes, trying to fight off the headache that was coming with the hallucinations. He dropped the paper onto the table and his hands flew to either side of his forehead, fingertips digging against his temples.

"Hey man, are you alright?" Clay's voice was a jumbled mess, and Tom's head was spinning - he recognized the hair, the eyes, and he'd heard the name, but he couldn't remember how, or why. Maybe he had seen her once before, in passing, or maybe she just looked like someone he knew? Either way, Tom decided, he wasn't about to tell Clay the truth.

"Okay," Tom muttered, and blinked his eyes open, looking up at Clay's hurt, and slightly concerned expression. "Sorry never seen 'er before, brother." Tom concentrated on keeping his voice smooth, calm, as he watched Clay nod.

"Alright, thanks." Clay said, his voice slightly dejected as he turned to leave. Tom felt horrible, and he staggered to his feet, a shaky hand resting on Clay Miller's bicep. "Come on, sit down," Tom urged, a smile plaguing his voice as he watched the young man turn around, without repaying the smile.

"No thanks... I'm sorry, I didn't get your name." Clay muttered the last part, feeling his cheeks flush slightly, before he dropped his eyes away from Tom's.

Tom chuckled and slid his hand down Clay's arm, before pulling it away. "Name's Tom," he sat down and motioned for Clay to sit in the seat in front of him, "Tom Hanniger." Tom watched as Clay's eyes lit up, and his hand lifted into the air, making a loose "L" with his pointer finger and thumb.

"Like, Hanniger Mines?" Clay's question threw Tom off, and he chuckled, harder than really necessary, and nodded, wrapping his hand around the glass in front of him. "Exactly like Hanniger Mines," Tom mumbled, bringing the glass to his lips and draining the liquid quickly. He sighed contently, as he pulled the glass away from his mouth, and slammed it onto the table.

"Do ya drink?" Tom cocked his head to the side, eyes set on Clay's, his fingers touching the side of the bottle of booze. Clay shook his head, but took the seat in front of Tom anyway, folding his hands on top of the table. "No, I don't," Clay added, incase Tom took his head shake in the wrong way, or didn't see it.

Tom just nodded and laughed, his fingers falling onto the table with a slight thump. "Me either- well, I shouldn't be." There was his laughter again, filling the small space between the two of them, somehow louder than the voices around them, and the faint music playing across the floor. The alcohol had warmed him, at least figuratively speaking, and he felt much better about all the bullshit and drama surrounding him.

"Where ya from, Clay?" Tom drummed his fingertips against the hard wood, listening to the faint noise, while he kept his eyes on the young man in front of him. He watched the way Clay shifted nervously, and the way Clay's throat looked when he swallowed hard. He could tell Clay was debating, within himself, whether or not to tell Tom-a complete stranger- where he was from.

"Don't worry, I won't follow you and kill you." Tom said, light-heartedly, but visions of the whole process, of killing, flashed through his head. He immediately shut his eyes and took a deep breath, his fingertips stopping in the air, shaking slightly. Tom could _feel_ Clay's eyes on him, and he chuckled softly, swallowed hard, and opened his eyes again, smiling at Clay.

"Chicago," Clay finally answered, in a soft voice, and shifted, uneasily, in his seat. He didn't know what to say around Tom, not because he was a stranger, but because Clay had too much on his mind. So, he tried to keep up small talk - asking Clay about his family business, if he had lived in Harmony all his life, things like that to keep Tom talking, and his mind off Whitney.

Tom answered all of Clay's questions, easily and quickly, and soon Clay was enjoying himself - even ordering a few beers. He watched Tom knock back shot after shot of the hard stuff, the stuff that Clay would never dream of touching, not paying attention to the crowd slowly thinning out.

Finally, though, Tom looked at his watched and cursed under his breath, his hands flying to his jeans pockets in search for his keys. Clay caught every movement of Tom's and raised his eyebrows in confusion. Then he checked his own watch, saw that it was almost midnight, and mentally kicked himself in the ass for being out so late.

"I should be going." Tom grunted in frustration, as he fought to get the keys to his Scout out of his pocket. Clay watched the whole show and bit his lip, to keep from laughing, and possibly angering Tom. He did, however, clap when Tom finally retrieved the keys from his pocket, causing Tom to nod humbly.

Staggering to his feet, Tom shot a hand out, gripping the table for support as he _finally_ felt the effect from the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed. He shut his eyes and stood for a moment, both hands gripped around the edge of the table, fully aware of everyone, including Clay's, eyes on him. _Just chill out, Tom,_ he thought to himself, practicing the breathing exercise he had been taught while in the hospital.

"You need me to drive you home?" Clay's voice somehow brought him back to reality, and he remember where he was - in a still-somewhat-crowded bar, in public. Not in the woods, or in the mines, where there was no one else to be seen, or heard, for miles. His head was still reeling, with thoughts of things he could barely remember, and people who's faces he didn't have names for.

He nodded, it was a tiny, very simple move, but it was all Clay needed as confirmation as he stood and grabbed the keys from Tom's hand. Two seconds later, Clay had his arms wrapped around Tom's waist for support, as Tom's arm was thrown around his own shoulders. They walked out of the bar, Tom more-or-less stumbling, while Clay dragged him to the parking lot.

"Which one is yours?" Clay looked around at the few cars that set in the parking lot, and watched Tom's finger, as it fell on a green/grayish looking truck. "That's my Scout," Tom slurred out, feeling more drunk at that moment than he had in the entire night.

Clay nodded and dragged Tom to the car, leaning him against the side as he wrestled with the passenger side door, muttering obscenities as he fumbled with the handle. After a few minutes, he finally got the door open, and Tom in the seat, buckled up and safe, even after his protesting against the seatbelt.

Then he was in the driver's seat, turning the car on, and hearing it roar to life, a sound he hadn't heard in a while, other than from his motorcycle. Clay savored the sound of an engine, and put the car in reverse, backing it out and heading onto the road. It was quiet in the car, the sound of the car's engine the only sound filling the cab, and Clay shivered at how eerie it was.

"Where's your house?" He finally asked, after minutes of being on the road, and shot a glance at Tom, who was sprawled out against the seat. Tom gave him a small smile and threw his hands in the air, shrugging along with the gesture.

"I just got back in town to sign away the mine, so I'm staying at a hotel." Tom's voice was getting better, the words coming out of his mouth sounding like _actual_ words, instead of gibberish. That still didn't help Clay, because there were a number of hotels in Harmony.

"Which one?" Clay's voice was low, and he doubted, for a second, whether or not Tom heard him. He got an answer to his doubts, when he heard a grunt and a mumbled, "I don't know," come from Tom's mouth.

"Whatever one you're staying at, pretty boy." Tom's voice was lower than usual, sleepy this time, and not so drunk, as he watched Clay drive. The compliment, as creepy as it was, made Clay blush, and he cleared his throat.

"Alright, we'll be there in a few minutes." Clay looked at Tom again, just in time to see him nod, and rest his head back against the seat. In a matter of moments, Tom was out like a light, dreaming about being in the mines, like always. Except this time, it felt as if his dreams had really happened, and he couldn't remember them when he was awake.

Tom dreamed of chasing after anyone who had ventured into the mines-_his_ mines-with a pick-axe, in his overalls and gas-mask. He dreamed of slitting a woman's chest open, after shoving the pick into her throat, and removing her heart, putting it in one of those heart-shaped candy boxes.

The dreams were so real, eerily vivid, and it was almost as if Tom could **feel** his victim's body quiver underneath the axe as the life was drained from their bodies; almost as if he could _hear_ the piercing screams, feel the rocky ground under his feet as he chased after his kill.

_She was running in front of him, brown hair splayed across her shoulders and back, her head turned to look at him, making eye-contact. Tom felt the rush of chasing after someone, felt the adrenaline pump through his veins as he gained on them, axe ready and waiting. He cornered her in the woods beside the mines, and heard himself breathe, slow and shallow, as he crept up on her. She was trembling, he could tell from where he was standing, and he smiled, but she wouldn't see that - she wouldn't see his face, his eyes, or the grin he was wearing while he sliced her open. With one swift flick of his arm, Tom sent the pick into her chest, feeling it hit bone and straining to hear the slight crack as they broke. He smiled more-_

Tom woke to Clay shaking his shoulder, and Clay's voice telling him to wake up. His mind was foggy, and he had forgotten all about the dream he had just had, let alone the fact that he was in the car with someone he had just met.

"Are we here?" Tom's voice was heavy with sleep, and he saw Clay nod at him, smiling softly. He felt something deep inside of him-something he didn't quite understand- and smiled back, sleepily, as his hand groped for the door handle.

Clay got out of the car, groaning as he felt his muscles ache slightly, and walked to the other side of the car - to Tom's side. He opened the door slowly, not wanting to startle Tom, and held it open for him. Tom got out carefully, his hands holding onto the door panel and the frame for support, but finally standing on his own.

"Alright, lets get you a room." Clay said as he placed his hand on Tom's bicep for a split second, before pulling away, feeling a sudden shock touch his skin. He couldn't explain the feeling - it was a small surge of some kind of energy, and Clay didn't know if it was chemistry, or fear, that drove him to pull away.

Tom's hazy eyes looked up at Clay's clear, green eyes, and for a moment he felt calm, really calm, like he didn't need to booze or the pills to keep him that way. But, Clay broke eye contact, and Tom went back to feeling like he was missing chunks of his life - feeling as if he had done things he couldn't remember or even explain, and feeling empty. Clay walked ahead of him, to the office of the hotel, and Tom followed, feeling sluggish, and feeling his head spin. He'd never felt this way, until he'd drank an entire three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey in one sitting, and he didn't like the feeling.

_Blood on his gloves_.. Tom stopped short and looked down at his bare hands, turning them over as if he'd somehow find them drenched in blood. No such luck, they were clean, well, _mostly_ clean. He took an extra second to just _look_ at his hands, and wonder how many things he had done with them - most he could remember, but it was from the past. Like working the mines, and unbuttoning Sarah Palmer's-though, she wasn't a 'Palmer' back in those days- shirt night after night, until the killings happened.

Tom finally realized he was standing in the middle of the parking lot, and looked up, his eyes searching for Clay. He took a step, listening to the hollow sound of his own footsteps as he approached the office. His hand wrapped around the doorknob-_wrapped around the axe handle_-and twisted it, pulling the door open. The air was warm inside the small building, and Tom only saw two people dwelling inside - Clay and an old lady sitting at a desk. He assumed she was the clerk, or receptionist - whatever they were called now-a-days.

Clay turned to look at him as he stood at the desk, he had just told the woman-Lydia, was her name- that his friend needed a room, and that he'd be in shortly. She had asked what he was doing outside, making assumptions that Clay really didn't want to hear; like if Tom was standing out there, peeping in windows and jerking off. The thought, and conversation, made Clay feel uneasy and he shook his head, ceasing all talk. That's when Tom came in, quiet, and slow; gauging each step as he took it.

"I need a room," Tom muttered as he made his way to the desk, hands sliding down the edge of it. The old lady, Lydia, looked at him, cocked an eyebrow and turned to four keys hanging on the wall behind her. _"Why don't you just share a room with him? Looks like you want to."_ The woman's voice was low, barely above a whisper, but Tom's senses were heightened now, and he heard every word.

His hands gripped around the plastic covering the wood, and he tightly shut his eyes, controlling his anger. When he heard the chair squeak, as it turned back around, he opened his eyes and smiled at the old woman.

"How many nights?" The question hung in the air as Tom thought about how many days he really would be sleeping there, until the deal was done with the mines. He shrugged, smiled softly at the woman again, and placed his hands on the desk-top.

"Probably three or four, so I'll pay you when I leave." Tom reached across the desk, grabbed the keys and swiveled around on his heel, making his way for the door. He listened to Clay and Lydia's breathing, chuckling softly within himself as he opened the door, looking down at the keychain. There was a gold '4' stamped on cheap leather, that Tom guessed was fake anyway, and he made his way down to the rooms, seeking out number four.

He stumbled upon his room and pushed the key into the lock, twisting it back and forth in a hasty motion, hearing heavy foot steps walking toward him. Tom shut his eyes, twisted the knob, and pushed the door open, instantly hit by the warm arm wafting from the room. Looking around, Tom concluded that he had been given honeymoon suite. _Great_, he thought, rolling his eyes and tossing his keys onto the bedside table, before sinking onto the bed.

The door was left open, and Tom looked up, running his palm over his stubble-laced jaw, just in time to see Clay standing in the doorway. It was pitch black outside, save for the various lights from the hotel's sign, and other guests' rooms, but Tom could see Clay perfectly; could make out his facial features quickly, and smoothly.

"Wanna come in?" Tom asked, as he rolled his head back and forth, listening to his neck pop slightly. He let out a groan and closed his eyes, keeping them shut as he heard the door squeak, and felt Clay's footsteps grow closer.

"What's your story?" Clay's voice was quiet, almost as if he were afraid he would wake someone, or alarm Tom. The question did in fact startle Tom and one eye popped open, fixating on Clay, his face twisted in a confused expression.

"What do you mean '_what's my story_'?" Tom asked, now with both eyes open, and his hands resting on either of his knees. The question didn't necessary anger Tom, it just surprised him - and he didn't know exactly how to answer it.

"You know, your story," Clay said, pulling a chair to the side of the bed and sitting down. "I mean, why'd you get out of here if your parents owned a money-maker?" He chuckled, nervously, and shifted in the seat, feeling Tom's eyes burning on his own.

Tom felt his shoulders hitch, and then fall, splaying his hands helplessly, as if he didn't know the answer. Truth was, Tom didn't want Clay to think he was nuts, even though nine out of ten doctors at the mental hospital a few towns over would agree that, yes - he was indeed crazy. But did Clay _really_ have to know that about him? If Tom told the young man, which he wouldn't, he knew that Clay would have questions, to which Tom had little, or no, answers for.

"I moved over a couple of states, worked on a farm.. I got tired of the mining life, man." Tom's voice was calmer than he expected, and his eyes softened while holding Clay's gaze. "What about you? I mean, your sister must mean a lot to you.." Tom was assuming things, of course, because Clay wasn't exactly chatty about his sister-_Whitney_, Tom remembered with a twinge of guilt.

"Oh, not really.." Clay shrugged and sunk down against the chair, crossing his arms over his chest, watching Tom carefully. Tom's eyebrow raised slightly, and he let out one, small chuckle, as if urging Clay to go on. "See, our mother was diagnosed with Cancer," the word felt funny coming from his mouth, "And Whitney was taking care of her, when I left."

"Why did you leave?" The question was out of Tom's mouth before he knew it, and he immediately regretted asking it. "I mean, you.. God, you don't have to tell me, man." Tom patted Clay's knee softly, letting his hand linger a bit longer than he should have, before pulling it away.

"No, it's okay," Clay sighed and looked up at the ceiling, watching his own expression in the mirror that hung just over the bed. _Isn't that classy?_ Clay thought to himself, chuckling softly and pulling his gaze back to Tom.

"I left because taking care of my mother was too overwhelming." Clay remembered the last day he saw his mother and shuddered away from it, banishing the thought from his mind as he continued, "So, I left her with Whitney, and went to do my own thing. That is, until Whitney went missing." He shook his head, lifting a large hand to his hair, brushing his fingers through the dark brown mess.

"And what do you think happened?" Tom's question was soft, his voice _almost_ sounding apologetic as he watched Clay's every move.

"I think that miner, what's his name?" Clay lifted his free hand in the air and then shrugged, "Anyway, he kills people with an axe, and tears their heart out.. I think she came across him and he.." Clay swallowed hard, feeling both morbid for discussing the possibility of his sister's death, and empty as he spoke.

But all Tom could think about as Clay talked was the feeling of the pick-axe in hand, the rush of walking the mines, and the noise his mask made every time he breathed. He thought about the feel of the axe as he shoved into-

"No," Tom said out loud, shaking his head roughly, trying to dislodge the thoughts in his mind. He could feel Clay's eyes on him, and knew the young man thought was crazy - hell, he'd be right. Tom felt around in his pockets, fishing out a small, cylindrical tube, and listened to the sound of the pills as they rolled around.

"I'm going to.. take these," Tom said, shaking the bottle in the air, before he was on his feet, making his way to the bathroom. He pushed the door open and stumbled into the small space, shutting the door behind him. The pill bottle dropped into the sink, and Tom's hands were clenched around the edge of the counter, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror - the same plain, tired look on his face as always, and then his vision snapped, and he wasn't staring at his own face, but the gas mask he'd worn, countless times, in the mines.

Then he saw the pick-axe, _felt _it in his hand, loose and hefty, swinging by his side as he walked through the rocks and gravel that led to the mines. He could heard the crunch of the rubble underneath his boots, and could hear his own breathing, altered by the mask on his face. Tom could hear the panicked screams of the woman running in front of her, and he swore, _for a second_, he could feel her fear, and that fueled his adrenaline.

He felt his body lunge faster, towards the brunette woman and the screaming, her high-pitched noises only making him run faster. As he made his way down the narrow space, Tom smashed his axe against the light bulbs that ran along the walls, casting shadows upon his next victim.

Her screams filled the empty underground cave, and Tom felt himself grinning as she slammed into the rocky wall, turning around, frantically, until her eyes fell upon him. Lifting his axe, Tom saw the panic flash in the woman's eyes - he saw her shaking, _trembling, _even before he had his weapon in the air. That was good; he wanted her to be scared, and he wanted to hear her beg for her life, which is what she was now doing.

He felt his head toll side to side, in slow motion, as he shoved the pick deep into the girl's chest cavity. Her eyes fluttered shut, then open, and then shut again as she gasped, her final breaths entering and exiting her lungs, and Tom shoved the axe in deeper. She moaned, and it wasn't the kind of moan Tom would _usually_ find attractive, but now it was strangely beautiful, and he loved hearing that sound.

He shoved the lifeless body off his axe, and let it fall to the ground, no longer a human being, but his own personal autopsy doll. Tom knelt beside the woman, the tip of his axe just barely caressing her chest, before digging in, making a large gash. Once the hole was cut open, Tom dug his hands in began patiently, _expertly_, prying the heart from the chest cavity.

Then Tom held it in his hands, looking at it from every angle, before standing up and turning away from the body lying on the ground. He gripped the heart tight in his hand and began walking down the length of the mine, slow and steady, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat die down, returning to it's normal pace.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom awoke the next morning to a headache and a sore body, and with absolutely no recollection of what happened the previous night. All he could remember was a bottle of Jack Daniels, horrible nightmares, and... there was something else, some presence he'd felt all night, and couldn't shake. He thought back to last night, trying to piece memories together like an awkward puzzle, but it was difficult for him to remember.

Sitting up in bed, Tom looked around the room, as if the pieces of his memory were nonchalantly lying around. And then, his eyes fell upon the beauty that was Clay Miller, sitting awkwardly in one of those cheap, plastic-lined hotel chairs. His memory went in to overdrive, and he remembered it clearly, he could remember first seeing Clay, sharing beers and stories with him, and somehow ending up in a hotel room in the middle of the night. After that, though, everything was a blur, like always, and a tattered heap of broken dreams, and vivid nightmares that Tom thought were real.

Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed, noticing that he was in different clothes than last night. Last night he had been wearing a pair of dark jeans that fit snuggly and a t-shirt, and now he was dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a tank top. He shook his head, and reached his hand out, gripping Clay's shoulder and giving it a hard tug.

Clay awoke, grumbling incoherently and groaning as his joints popped, which Tom could hear _perfectly_, and the noises sent him back to his dreams. _He heard the bones pop, crack, and could feel them snap against the cold steel. _Wincing, Tom shook his head once, to the left, and his eyes settled on Clay once more.

This was when he saw Clay, _really_ saw him without the haze of alcohol clouding his judgment. His eyes worked their way down Clay's features, stopping every now and then to _stare_ at Clay's eyes, or lips, before he found himself avoiding looking at him all together. Tom couldn't understand his feelings-the _urges_ he had now- and he felt himself being oddly pulled, in a sense, to Clay.

"What time is it?" Clay asked and Tom's shoulders shrugged, automatically, as he turned his wrist over, looking at his watch.

"Nine in the morning." He heard Clay groan, and snapped his head up, seeing the young man stand up. Tom took a second to look at Clay-_really_ look at him, sober, and awake- and he shuddered, thinking about Clay's large frame hovering above him...

"Want to go get breakfast?" Clay's voice cut through Tom's fantasies, and he raised his eyebrows, in a lazy fashion, and fixed his eyes on Clay's.

"Sure, just give me time to shower, okay?" Clay nodded and turned to walk away, giving Tom time to look at him from behind. Tom had to admit Clay was one of the best looking guys he had ever seen - _hell_, even one of the **sexiest**, but he would never openly say that. Instead, he watched the door shut behind Clay, and sat there a moment longer, his headache slowly subsiding, and his pains turning into dull, aching throbs.

He pushed himself off the bed, a small yelping noise emerging from his throat the second he was standing; his legs feeling as if they were covered in bruises. _Impossible_, Tom thought as he shuffled, slow, and sluggish, to the bathroom door. Pushing the door open felt like an impossible task, and Tom's muscles protested every movement he made, frustrating him.

In minutes, he had the door opened; his clothes were stripped off and laying, haphazardly, along the bathroom floor. Tom stood naked in front of the mirror, mouth gaping open as he stared at his own body - bruises covered his thighs, sides, and chest, and he had numerous cuts along his skin. He touched the cuts and bruises with gentle fingertips; skin gliding against skin, causing him to wince at the pain. Dumbfounded, Tom shook his head and turned to the shower, turning the hot water on before stepping under the scalding waterfall.

It took a while for Tom to notice the skin-burning water falling against his cuts, and the sudden intake of steam into his lungs. When he finally did, he doubled over, coughing loudly, and feeling his chest spasm from the spell. After he calmed down, after what seemed like forever, Tom stood under the shower head; letting the hot water roll over his head, and down his chest, running his hands along his wet skin.

As he touched his slick skin, Tom tried to figure out _why_ he was covered in bruises, and cuts, absentmindedly tracing them, almost lovingly, _proudly_, as water droplets ran along his chest. _The branches tore his t-shirt as he walked along the woods_. Tom's eyes widened as he felt over one of his cuts, a particularly large one on his bicep, and remembered exactly how he had gotten it.

He'd been in the woods, some time last night, running.. to.. or from something? He wasn't quite sure, but he guessed he had fallen a lot, and ran into a lot of tree branches. That wasn't typical, but not exactly unheard of - Tom had be quite clumsy when he was a child, until he had learned the mines, and gotten more balance.

As he pondered, over millions of thoughts running through his head, the water started running cold, chilling Tom instantly. He snapped the water off, cursing loudly at it, as he stumbled out of the shower, almost falling against the sink.

"Jesus fucking Christ, _god damnit_.." Tom's obscenities continued to spill from his mouth as he wrapped a large towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom. Standing in the doorway, Tom looked around the room, until his eyes fell on his bag, and he walked towards it. _He heard the gravel crunch under his boots, growing louder and the louder..._

Tom dropped to his knees onto the carpeted floor, his hands moving to either side of his head, gripping his hair tightly. He was muttering _'no,'_ over and over again, whispering it to himself until the thoughts, _the memories_, vanished completely. His hands fell to his sides, onto the floor, as he sat back against his heels, staring ahead of him, and at the wall.

"What am I?" Tom's voice was quiet, a harsh and broken whisper, as he stared at the faded pattern of the wallpaper. He sat like that for minutes, just staring ahead, and wondering what he _really_ was; wanting to know why he was having vivid dreams about killing someone, and ripping their heart out.

Tears fell from his eyes, rolling hot down his cheeks as he slammed his fist against the ground - cursing everything. His eyes shut and he choked back angry sobs, sobs of frustration, confusion, and Tom slammed his fist into the foot board of the bed. He was angry with himself, his memories, and his mind for fucking with him. Was he really a killer? Or did he just _fantasize_ about the kill - the whole process of going about doing it?

Tom opened his mouth to scream, but a knock on the door stopped him cold, and he snapped his mouth shut. Shuffling to his feet, Tom wiped the back of his hands over his eyes, wiping away any trace of tears from them. Once satisfied that whoever was behind the door wouldn't notice that he was _actually_ **crying**, he opened the door slowly, his eyes falling on Clay.

Clay's eyes widened when he looked at Tom, seeing the scars, cuts, both fresh and healing, and bruises that were just now starting to form. He hadn't noticed the small gasp escape his throat, until Tom's own eyes matched his own, and looked down at the mess on his skin.

It took everything inside of Clay to keep from lifting his hands to touch the bruises, outline them gently with his fingertips. It took even_ more_ for him not to turn around and run, run like _hell_, away from this god forsaken town, and the man standing in front of him. _I can't do that,_ Clay thought, his eyes lingering on each bruise, scanning each cut individually, wondering how such a gorgeous man could be so scarred, so messed up.

"I think I had one too many accidents last night," Tom's voice was soft, an undertone, as he lifted his own hand to re-traced the bruises on his torso, thankful that Clay couldn't see his thighs. Then it hit him that he was standing there, with the door open, in front of this beautiful man... in his towel. Tom's cheeks flushed as he turned and walked into the room, feeling Clay's footsteps following him, even on the cushioned floor.

"I'll be a minute." Tom's words came out too fast, and he stumbled over them, his cheeks growing hotter. _Can I just get _one_ thing right?_ Tom thought to himself as he snatched his bag off the floor and made his way to the bathroom, without a single word to Clay.

Once the door was shut, Clay chuckled softly to himself, until he remembered the way Tom had looked - the bruises, the cuts, and the strange way Tom had just walked off, with no further explination, or words. Clay just shrugged, shuffling his feet on the carpet as he waited for Tom to get into clothes, his mind jumping from one thought to another - first from Tom's bruised body, to the thought of what was... No, Clay couldn't think like that, _wouldn't_ let himself think that way, not now - not ever.

So, he patiently waited, for what seemed like forever, flipping through the stack of boring, un-interesting magazines that he knew no one ever leafed through. As he read pointless articles about weed-eating, mowing your lawn, and how to keep pesky animals out of your yard, Clay listened to a line of words coming from the bathroom, his head snapping up toward the door.

"Tom?" Clay's voice was soft, cautious, as he tossed the magazine on top of the bed and walked toward the door, hearing the muttering grow louder, into what sounded like screaming. Clay was to the door in two easy strides, twisting the doorknob roughly and shoving the heavy door open, just in time to see Tom hunched on the floor, hands over his head.

"Tom.." Clay said, his voice louder than before, and panicked, as he fell to his knees in front of Tom. Clay's fingers worked at trying to pry Tom's hands away from his hair, and he grunted in frustration, his fingernails digging into Tom's skin.

"No, god, no! I didn't do it, I'm so sorry!" Tom screamed, louder than before, as he began rocking back and forth, his head thrashing from side to side. He was having those thoughts again, but this time they wouldn't _stop_, like before. Tom saw the girl Clay had shown him a picture of-Whitney, he couldn't get her name out of his head- and he saw her lying, bloody and on the floor of the mines' control room. There was a gaping, hollow hole in her chest, and the way she lay there, splayed out on the floor like that, was like some kind of fucked up, morbid art to him. Tom could remember the way she'd screamed, _begged_ for him to let her go; that she wouldn't tell anyone, and that she needed to get back home...

Tom's breath caught in his throat when he remembered what else she had said; a name, it was so simple and small, that Tom had barely remembered it after he was finished. _Clay_, she had screamed out, and Tom's eyes snapped open, his head lifting up, and his gaze landing on Clay's. He was trembling, hands shaking as he removed them from his head, unlocking his fingers from his hair.

_"Clay."_ The word came out in a broken, breathless whisper, and Tom scattered back against the bathroom floor, his back hitting the bathtub. He felt Clay's eyes piercing his own, his gaze burning on to Tom's, as he lay there; staring at the brother of the girl he had murdered. _I murdered someone_.. The thought seemed strange at first, and Tom shook his head violently, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his shins, chin rested on his knees.

Clay sat back, watching Tom with wide eyes, and a confused expression; his eyebrows knit together. He watched Tom shake, and he reached out, his fingertips barely brushing over Tom's skin, causing him to scream loudly.

"It's okay, Tom," Clay whispered, his voice low, lower than usual, as he moved closer to Tom, their skin almost _touching_. "Just.." Clay breathed in deeply, lifting his hand to brush his fingers through Tom's hair, not thinking for a second that it was wrong, and he shouldn't be doing it. All he could think about was this man-this _stranger_-was hurt, and Clay knew he had to help him, even though he didn't know how.

"Just tell me what's wrong, please.." Clay couldn't believe he was _pleading_ with a complete stranger, on the dirty floor of a hotel in, basically, the middle of nowhere. But, here he was, kneeling on the floor, his fingers in another man's hair, trying to calm him down the best he could. Clay slipped his fingers out of Tom's hair and onto his back, his fingertips roughly pressing against his tense muscles.

"Have you ever done anything bad..." Tom whispered against the fabric of his jeans, his voice slightly muffled as he pressed his face against the denim more. He felt Clay's fingertips hesitate on his back, and for a second, he was upset, and that turned to gratefulness. He wanted Clay to stop touching him, _wanted_ the man to run out of the room, and never come back. Hell, he wanted Clay to kill him in cold blood, just like he-_thought he_- did to his sister.

"Yeah, I have," Clay finally whispered, breaking the awkward silence that hung between Tom and himself, his fingers working Tom's shoulder again. He could feel Tom trembling under his fingertips, and he could also feel him shudder. "Why?" The question was soft, and Clay scooted closer to Tom, without realizing it.

"I just.." Tom breathed out, pulling his face away from his knees so he could look at Clay, but he avoided the young man's eyes. He was afraid if he met Clay's gaze, that he would break down and tell him what he had done - or at least what his _thoughts_ were telling him he had done.

"I've done bad things, Clay." Tom cleared his throat and rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes, wiping away tears, tears that Tom hadn't shed in a while. "Really.. _really_ bad things.." The images popped in his head - Whitney sprawled out on the floor, her dark brown hair a mess, but somehow, beautifully fanned out around her head, and her chest ripped wide open.

"Like what?" Clay asked, shifting to sit next to Tom beside the bathtub, his hand tracing down the curve of Tom's spine. He felt Tom shudder under his touch and he swallowed hard, cupping Tom's jaw with his free hand, pulling his gaze to his own.

"What have you done that is so bad, that you're in here freaking out?" Clay chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, but didn't see it affecting Tom in anyway. Shutting his mouth, Clay quickly wiped the smirk off his face and slipped his hands away from Tom's body, before folding them on his lap.

"Bad things, to people who didn't.. They didn't deserve it, Clay.." Tom's voice broke, and he felt a sob creeping it's way up his throat. He choked it back, shut his eyes as tightly as possible and smirked, in the harshest way possible. "You should get away from me, if you know what's good for you.." Tom chuckled, harshly, and blinked his eyes open, peering at Clay through his eyelashes, the same wicked grin on his lips.

Clay shook his head, his jaw set and his lips pressed into a hard, thin line. "No, I won't." The statement shocked Tom and his forehead furrowed, before he started laughing, shaking his head.

"Nice joke, Clay," he laughed out, before calming down and adding, "but no, really.. Leave. Get so fucking far away from this town, and never look back. Forget you met me, forget this town, forget everything - even Whitney.." He saw the look in Clay's eyes when he mentioned her name, saw the way Clay winced, and saw his expression change.

"You.." Clay started, looking down as he swallowed hard, picking at his jeans as he blinked his eyes, rapidly, trying to keep tears from falling.

"Saying she's dead? Yes, Clay," Tom's voice was soft, sympathetic, "that's exactly what I'm saying. She's been gone for weeks.. and no one in this town has seen her..." Tom watched as Clay lifted his head, his eyes brimming with tears, and he felt his heart sink. He was usually apathetic to every, and **all**, human emotion, but that moment was an exception - the _only_ one Tom would ever let himself have.

His hand was outstretched, ready to brush away Clay's tears, when he felt Clay's fist collide with his jaw, sending him back against the bathroom floor. Tom was on his back, his jaw already throbbing from the pain, groaning loudly and rubbing his cheek, when Clay crawled on top of him; his fists coming down like hail, each time harder than the other.

"You son of a"-_punch -_"bitch!" Clay was yelling at Tom, while his fists were colliding with his jaw, over and over again, making blood pool in his mouth. He tried telling Clay to stop, but he decided against it, figuring that if it made Clay feel better to beat the shit out of him, he would let him. And, if Clay didn't stop, and Tom died, that'd be good - no more mysterious murders in, or around, the mines.. No more nightmares, just death.

Tom shut his eyes, waiting for all the punches he _deserved_, but they never came. Blinking his eyes open, Tom looked at Clay, and saw tears running down his face, fist in mid-air, about to come down. Tom's eyes were pleading for Clay to just punch him, _kill_ him, if need-be, just get it over with.

"I'm.. you.. I'm sorry, fuck." Clay muttered, scrambling to his feet and running out of the bathroom door. Tom turned over slowly and tried calling after Clay; opening his mouth and trying to scream Clay's name, yell for him to come back.

But nothing came out, and his words were muffled by the gargling noises the blood in his mouth made. Tom shoved himself up, and to his feet, swaying slightly as he stood up; his eyes looking out into the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Tom stood above the sink, spitting blood out into the white porcelain bowl, his jaw throbbing painfully. He'd made the mistake at looking at himself in the mirror, and that made him sick. Not because of his face, and how swollen it was, but because of what _he_ was inside, and what he did to people. So, he had stared at himself, long and hard, for almost an hour, just wondering what kind of things he did, or possibly did. He'd wondered how many people he may have killed, if they were sons, daughters, or if they had families at home, waiting for them.

All of it was too much and Tom punched the sink, hard enough to crack the porcelain, and heard bones crack in his hand. _Great,_ Tom thought to himself as he pulled his hand back and inspected it; it _looked_ normal, and felt normal too, but he could see the swelling start and he laughed softly to himself. Maybe he was crazier than everyone thought he was, and maybe he should just admit himself back into the hospital - that'd be best for everyone, right? But, as Tom thought about it, and thought about _Clay_, he knew that his decision to leave, when they had let him, was final; there was no going back to the land of crazy.

With that thought in mind, Tom began searching the bathroom for something, anything, that he could use to doctor his hand. The medicine cabinets were empty, of course, but under the sink he found a box of bandages, and tore into them. He'd wrapped two or three of the white gauze around his knuckles, and most of his hand, and tied it, instead of taping it. After his hand was barely bandaged, Tom filled a cup with water, from the tap, and drank it; swishing the warm water around in his mouth before spitting it back out.

_There, I'm mostly cleaned.._ Tom thought to himself, looking at his reflection in the mirror one more time; trying to decide if he was presentable enough. "Enough for what?" He muttered, lifting a hand, the working one, to his jaw; running his fingertips along the skin that was, like the rest of his body, already starting to turn that ugly, purple-green-black color. He groaned in disgust and shrugged, knowing that no one would ask him what happened, nor would they care. _They might laugh and ask if they can join Clay in beating the shit out of me,_ Tom thought and chuckled at the idea, shaking his head.

He walked into the empty bedroom, looked around for a second, before grabbing his hooded sweatshirt, and coat. Tom slipped both on, wincing only _slightly_ at the pain in his hand, before he was out the door, and walking toward the office. The air was chilly, more so than normal, and Tom pulled his hood over his head, sinking away from the cold. His steps became faster, the colder he felt, and he was in the warmth of the building in a matter of seconds. The small office _smelled_ warm, like apples and cinnamon, and Tom slipped the hood off of his head, walking up to the desk. He quickly noticed that the woman sitting behind the large wooden desk was not the same woman he'd seen last night, but a younger, much prettier, one.

Tom smiled at her, feeling his jaw ache as it protested against the movement, but he didn't care. He rested his arms on the desktop and leaned forward toward the young woman, his dazzling, charming smile on one-hundred percent.

"I'm looking for my best friend's room," Tom started, making his voice as low, and almost seductive, as possible. Smiling, the young lady looked up at him, her green eyes-_like Clay's_-meeting his own hazel gaze. "Name?" She asked, her fingertips lightly resting on a keyboard, her eyes never leaving Tom's.

"Clay, Miller." Tom had to think for a second what Clay's last name was, and was surprised when, only a moment later, the young lady nodded. "Room 8, just down that way," she pointed in a different direction that Tom had come, and he nodded, flashing her another smile before thanking her.

He ran back out into the cold, and down a long line of numbered rooms, stopping dead in front of number eight. Tom breathed hard, resting his hands against the door frame, before mustering the courage to knock on the door, hearing the hollow sound echo in the room. He waited a second, heard locks being pushed, pulled, and tugged, before the door swung open to a, obviously, drunk Clay.

"Tom," Clay slurred, smiling and giggling at the sound, the _feel_ of Tom's name coming from his lips. He had a bottle of scotch in his hands, and he motioned, quickly and awkwardly, for Tom to come in.

Tom hesitated a step, but shrugged, walking into the room and shutting the door behind him. He wondered how Clay had gotten so drunk in an _hour_, when it took him three or four. Shaking his head, Tom walked over to the bed and sank down, looking up at Clay with a softened expression.

"Clay, I'm sorry," Tom started off, splaying his hands helplessly, before pulling one to his hair, running his fingers through the short, brown locks. He took a deep breath, looking at Clay carefully - noticing the little things, like the way he swayed back and forth, and that stupid, _fucking stupid_, grin on his face.

"Is okay," Clay said, waving a hand dismissively, as he slunk down onto the bed next to Tom. Tom's head turned, to stare at Clay, and before he knew it, Clay's lips were seeking his own, quickly finding them. He was stunned, sitting there motionless, like a statue, lips taut against Clay's.

"Clay.." The word came out muffled, and Tom groaned in frustration, pushing Clay back, and away from him. "We can't do this, Clay," he started off, but his hands lingered on Clay's chest, "You're grieving, man. And drinking alcohol, that's not a good combination. Plus, I don't swing that way." Once those last words were out, Tom's mind immediately contradicted himself, thinking that Clay was the _only_ man he'd have sex with.

"I want this, Tom." Clay's voice wavered, faltering slightly as he stared at Tom with wide, sad eyes and his hand out-stretched to Tom's face. Tom pushed it away, as gently as possible, but Clay overtook him; pushing Tom to the bed with surprising force.

"Fucking stop this, Clay," Tom grunted, his fists balled in Clay's shirt, trying to push him off, but Clay wasn't budging. Every emotion possible was flowing through Tom's veins - anger, because he had come there to _talk_ to Clay, not get taken control of. He was also upset, because he didn't want Clay to think of him like that, get attached and then find out what he _really_ was. The other emotions were confusion, need, _want_, and fear that **he **would get attached to Clay, and that was too much for him.

Clay's lips were on every inch of Tom's exposed skin, and he trembled against the soft touch, giving in to temptations. Within seconds, Tom's hands were in Clay's hair, tugging roughly, both to pull him away, and to urge him to keep going. His head was spinning, and his cock was reacting to Clay's warm, soft lips against his skin, and he couldn't _believe_ he was letting this happen.

Clay responded to Tom's hands in his hair, by biting his neck roughly and pressing his hips against Tom's, long and hard. The action made Tom yelp and he felt his dick throb against his jeans, begging to be let out, _begging_ to be touched by Clay's strong hands. _God, this cannot be happening.._ Tom thought, but he didn't stop Clay when he felt his hands running to his jeans; Tom didn't even stop him when he heard the zipper slide down, and felt warmth on the front of his boxers.

"Clay, fuck," Tom moaned out and Clay bit his way up Tom's throat, to his ear, and then down his jaw; his lips finding their way to Tom's. And the moment they touched, Tom's breathing stopped, and he felt a pain in his chest, a pain that he couldn't explain, even if he tried. He pulled himself away from Clay and, mustering all his strength, managed to push the man off of him, and onto the bed.

"I can't, Clay. I'm sorry," Tom muttered as he stood, zipping his jeans up and straightening his clothes. He didn't dare turn around and face Clay, so he walked out, without another word; afraid that if he looked at Clay, he would give in. Instead, Tom stormed down the hall to his room, tearing the door open before he stormed in and snatched the keys to his Scout off the table. Keys in hand, he walked out of the room, slammed the door, and walked to the parking lot, his mind going a million miles an hour.

Tom reached his Scout and he opened the door, climbing behind the wheel and quickly firing the engine. He looked in his rear-view mirror, seeing the faces of all the women, the children, the _men_, that were in his nightmares, and instantly regretted it. Then Clay came in his line of vision, his expression sad, and his eyes hopeless; Tom felt that same tug on his heart again, and swallowed hard, choking back the want, _the need_, to go back to Clay.

The car was in drive before Tom could tear his eyes away from the rear-view, and he was making his way toward the highway, as fast as the Scout would let him. Soon, he was cruising on the road, tank full of gas, and headed for the next town; looking for someone, _something_, that would take his mind off Clay, and the dreams he'd been having.

Not too long after he'd passed into town, Tom spotted an out-of-the-way bar, it's bright neon-signs barely noticeable against the dusk-colored sky. He pulled onto the gravel parking lot, and put his car in park, staring at the small building. Tom had a compulsion to get out, go in, and find someone drunk enough to leave with him, and fuck them; pretend they were Clay, just to get the fantasies out of his head.

Tom tore the keys out of the ignition, stumbled out of the door, and slammed it shut behind him; walking toward the bar's front door, with determination. He _would_ get Clay off his mind, one way or another, whether it was from drinking so much he blacked out, or finding some random person to hook up with.

Pausing in front of the door, with his hand on the hard wood, Tom thought about turning back, going to Clay, and apologizing. But what if he was sober by then? And what if he put the pieces together, like how Tom knew, or had _guessed_, that his sister was dead.. and how he'd been in the mental hospital for seven years. _He would hate me_, Tom thought, choking on a sob as he shut his eyes, shaking his head, and pushing the door open.

He was greeted by warm air, and the smell of beer, whiskey, and cheeseburgers - his favorite things in life. Tom was pulled in the direction that the delicious smells were coming from, and found himself standing in front of the bar, which was scarcely populated. The woman behind the bar looked up from the glass she was cleaning, and smiled warmly at Tom. He found himself smiling back, out of habit, not courtesy, as he sat on one of the tall bar stools.

"What can I getcha, sweetie?" The woman's accent was thick, and it made Tom feel at home, like not everyone hated him, and like he didn't feel like a fucking freak. It took him a second to collect his thoughts, and he looked around, taking everything in. He took in the sounds, the voices and the various conversations, but most of all, he took in a beautiful man sitting at the opposite end of the bar.

His hair was medium length, dirty blonde, and under the smoky light, his skin looked _stunning_. Tom felt himself being attracted to the man mostly because he slightly resembled Clay, and because he was too fucking horny to be picky. Tom turned his attention back to the bartender and flashed his charming smile, pointing to the man at the end of the bar.

"I'd like to send him a drink; whatever he'd like." The bartender gave Tom a smile, nodded, and walked down the length of the bar, catching the young man's attention. Tom watched as she talked, her lips moving quickly, and her hands motioning toward him, causing his cheeks to grow warm.

He had ducked his head, from embarrassment, and both to keep his cool - he wanted that man, it was obvious to anyone who dared to look under the bar. With his head down, Tom took deep breaths, counting the number of steps it would take him to run to the door, the seconds it would take for him to get in the Scout, and the minutes, hours, it would take him to run away. While he was planning his elaborate scheme, Tom hadn't noticed, nor felt, the presence next to him, until he felt a hand grip his shoulder.

"Hey," a soft voice whispered, and Tom's insides flipped upside down, and he suddenly forgot how to breathe, and think. Tom's attention turned toward the voice, and his breathing started up again as he stared into the beautiful blue eyes in front of him. The beauty standing in front of him smiled, and Tom found himself seeing Clay's smile, his jaw, his eyes - everything that this man didn't have.

"My name's John." Tom watched the way John's lips moved, and had to stop himself from grabbing the back of his neck, and kissing him. Instead, he smiled softly at the young man, nodding his head slightly, and sticking his hand out.

"I'm... Bob.." Tom lied, his voice sounded strange, too high, and he could hear the uncertainty, of what he was doing, behind his words. Then he felt John's hand slip into his own, and that was all the confirmation he needed to go through with this, fuck the kid until Clay was off his mind, and then leave town. He didn't give a fuck about the mines - he would tell Ben to take it over instead, but he didn't want to stick around to sign fucking papers.

"Do you wanna.. get out of here?" Tom was taken back by the young man's question, that he only nodded, mouth hanging slightly open. John giggled, and the noise rang in Tom's ears, causing him to both smile, and shiver.

Before he knew it, John was dragging him behind the bar, finding himself wedged between the [bar] and the building behind it. "What do you want, baby?" John's voice was low, sexy, and full of lust as he kissed along Tom's neck, and to his ear; purring softly as he gyrated his hips against Tom's. Tom's head was spinning and all he could do was shove the young man, whose name he'd almost forgotten, against the hard wall, pinning his chest against the brick with his forearm.

"I want you to shut your pretty little mouth," and, _God_, was it pretty, "And let me fuck you, you got that?" John grinned and nodded at Tom's command, wiggling his hips as his hands shot out, gripping Tom.

"It'll cost ya." John's voice was low again, and Tom grinned, shaking his head slowly. "I don't care how much it costs, sweetheart.. I just want to tear into your ass." He could feel John shaking under his grip, and that made him happy, _happier_ than it really should have. Then he felt John's hands snaking to the front of his jeans, and he quickly pulled at the young man's wrists, shoving them above his head.

Tom made a slight clicking sound with his tongue as he shook his head, grinning wickedly at Tom. "Am I paying you to touch me?" John shook his head no, and Tom smiled more, nodding his head. "Exactly. I'm paying you to just stand there, look pretty, and get fucked by me." There was a heavy amount of venom behind his words, but Tom didn't care - all he wanted to do was fuck this twenty-something year old kid, forget about Clay, and leave.

John nodded, and allowed himself to be turned around by Tom, so that he was facing the wall. Once John was in the right stance, Tom slipped his hands down the young man's sides, and then to his zipper, pulling it down quickly. He didn't bother unbuttoning his jeans, and tugged them down roughly, leaving them around John's ankles. Tom knelt behind the man's body and fished around in his pocket for a condom, retrieving one after only a few seconds of searching.

Tom stood back up and quickly worked on undoing his own fly, pulling it down before yanking the denim down his legs. His cock was hard, throbbing, and twitched when a soft, cold breeze blew over the sensitive head. With one hand, Tom held John in place, while he brought the condom wrapper to his lips; tearing the top off with his teeth and spitting it out.

In no time at all, Tom was sliding the rubber on his cock, and spreading John's ass, pressing the tip of his cock against the awaiting hole. "How many dicks have you had, Clay?" Tom hadn't noticed that he used the wrong name, nor did he care - he was fucking a _slut_, who made his living off sucking, stroking, and riding dick.

"I'm not-" John started, but Tom's hand went over his mouth, silencing him as he jerked his hips forward, his cock shoving into John's tight ass. "I don't care, you filthy slut," Tom whispered, harshly, against John's ear, as he slammed the entire length of his cock inside the warmth that wrapped around him.

He let out a loud groan against John's ear, whispering Clay's name as he began fucking John roughly. Tom had no intentions of being gentle, or _soft_, nor did he care if he was being too rough with the young man; the way he saw it was, he was paying good money for a meaningless fuck, why should it be anything but rough?

As Tom pounded John's tight ass, he thought about lying in bed with Clay, having sex with him, instead of some random male-hooker in a lone bar. He felt dirty, but that didn't stop him from sliding one hand to John's hair, and the other onto his hip, gripping both of them roughly as he kept fucking the man he had met, not even twenty minutes ago.

"You're such a dirty boy, Clay," Tom whispered, in a husky voice, as he felt John's muscles clench around his cock, almost sending him over the edge. Forcing himself to last longer, Tom slowed down, gripped John's hip rougher, and yanked his hair back, exposing his throat. "Don't you love when I fuck you?" Tom's lips were against John's throat, his voice, and breath, hot against the call-boy's skin. He felt John's head nod, just barely, and he grinned, breathing against John's skin just before pulling his mouth away.

Tom shoved John's head, roughly, forward, and pushed him over more, fucking him harder than before, and with no guilt, or feeling whatsoever. All he wanted was one moment of lust, one moment that was _his_, and that wouldn't end up being a fucking nightmare. And this was his moment - slamming his hard cock into a guy who's name he _had_ forgotten, and whom he was calling by another man's name.

Tom kept thinking about it being Clay bent over in front of him instead, taking his cock like a professional, or sucking it like the slut he imagined Clay to be. That was all he needed to send him over the edge, and he breathed in deeply, letting out a loud grunt as he came hard. Panting, he pulled out of John and slipped the condom off, tossing it into the field behind them, before leaning down to pull his jeans up.

"How much do I owe you?" Tom's voice was flat, emotionless, as he grabbed the wallet from his back pocket. He opened it and ran his fingers over bill after bill, finally resting his fingertips on a twenty dollar bill. Plucking it out, he held it up between his fingers, cocking his head as he watched John get his jeans back on.

"Is this enough?" He asked, raising an eyebrow impatiently. John nodded his head and reached out for the money with a grin on his face, licking his lips softly. "Maybe we can do this again.." John reached out to run his fingers through Tom's hair and he laughed, pulling away.

"No, never again. Forget about me, forget that I fucked you, and forget my face - it'll be best for the both of us." Tom turned away, without saying another word, and walked around the building, to the parking lot. He walked slowly, thinking about what he had just done, and what his next move was going to be. Obviously, he couldn't go back to the hotel, and he started to wonder if he could even got back to Harmony.

"This is crazy," Tom mumbled to himself, once he was alone, in his car, and leaned his head against the seat. Clay would be gone soon, hopefully, and then Tom could do what he set out to do when he came to town - sign the mines over to someone else, and forget about them, and the whole fucking town along with it.


	4. Chapter 4

Tom had decided to go back for his things, to go back to the hotel where he _knew_ Clay was, but he didn't care at that moment. All he cared about was going back to get his things, pay for the room, and get the hell out of dodge. By the time he had gotten back on the main road, it was midnight and the roads were quiet, un-occupied, and that gave him time to go slow, to think about what he had just done, and about how much he regretted it. Sure, he enjoyed it when it was happening, but after the fact he felt dirty, sick, and like he wanted to shower with hot water and bleach.

"I fucked a male prostitute... and wished he was Clay.." Tom said out loud, to no one but himself and the car, which was silent, except for the soft purring of the engine. He couldn't believe what he did, nor could he believe the fact that he had **paid** for sex; gave someone money to take his cock, and pretend to be someone that, in all honesty, Tom shouldn't have been thinking about.

But he had. He'd fucked the kid, paid him, and left without saying anything else, and that's how he liked to leave it - short, and quiet, no strings. So why couldn't he have that with Clay - something short, quick, and with absolutely no strings attached? _Because of my heart, and the way it feels when he's around_, Tom thought to himself and drew in a deep breath, holding it longer than really needed. When he let it out, he also groaned softly and shut his eyes, letting the car weave in and out of the road.

When Tom felt the tires going over into the gravel, he snapped his eyes open and pulled the car back onto the main road, seeing the sign of the hotel just in front of him. Tom was pulled to that bright neon sign, and found himself wanting to see Clay.

"No," he told himself harshly, and shook his head roughly, causing him to feel slightly lightheaded. He giggled, the strange sound filling the silent cab of the car, as he pulled into the hotel parking lot, quickly seeking a parking space before shutting the car off. Looking up at the numbers, of the rooms he parked in front of, Tom's heart dropped as he realized he was sitting in front of Clay's. He took it as a sign that 'fate' wanted him to talk to Clay, at least patch things up with him before he left. _I can do that much_, Tom thought, with his hand wrapped around the door handle.

He pulled the handle, and pushed the door open, climbing out slowly, as if he were unsure of his actions, or motives. Once he was outside of the car, standing in the cold night air, Tom began to have second thoughts about going in and talking to Clay. He knew it wouldn't end well, for either of them, and he was afraid of what he might do, or say, to Clay.

Shaking his head, Tom took a step towards room number eight where, hopefully, Clay was at. He felt his knees shake, and his stomach flip as he got closer to the room, and he had thoughts of turning back, but his body wouldn't let him. Stopping in front of the door, Tom lifted a shaky hand, reluctant and nervous to knock, but he did it anyway; the sound was soft, and he didn't think it was audible, until he heard footsteps approaching the door.

He was more nervous than before, but felt himself being stuck to the spot he was standing in - waiting for Clay to open the door. Tom heard locks as they were undone, and then the slow creak of the door as it was being pulled open, and he looked up; his eyes met Clay's instantly, and he smiled, meekly, at the man in front of him.

"Hi," Tom whispered, and it came out as a small squeak, causing him to shake even more. He couldn't understand why he was so nervous around Clay, nor did he _really_ want an explanation - some things were better left unknown, he had always been told. But he did, however, want a reason for why his heartbeat raced, and he shook, every time Clay was near him, or even in the same place. Tom shook his head again, then let his eyes fall on the man standing in front of him - Clay's hair was neat, brushed, and the ends curled outward from the base of his neck, his bangs falling just over his eyebrows. Tom didn't know how much more he could take, so he averted his eyes away from Clay's face, and found they were making their own way down to the younger man's chest.

Tom could see _almost_ every muscle of Clay's chest through the tight t-shirt he wore, and he swallowed hard; imagining that chest pressed against his own, and their lips tangled together. _Get a hold of yourself,_ Tom thought as he snapped his eyes back up and found Clay smiling at him; his stomach twisted slightly, then he felt an odd sensation, one he hadn't felt in ten years since Sarah, and he shoved his way into the hotel room.

"I need to talk to you," Tom started off, pacing the room with his hands in his pockets, and his head down; watching as his feet slid back and forth over the carpet. Once again, he could _feel_ Clay's eyes boring a hole in the back of his head and he stopped dead in his tracks - turning to face the man in front of him; the brother of the girl whom he had killed.

"I've done bad things, as I've told you before," Tom's head tilted slightly, and he chuckled, watching Clay nod and mouth 'yes.' "But, I've never really told you what bad things I've done, and I think I should, before I.." His words dropped at that, and he swallowed hard, piecing together what he was going to say.

"Before you, what?" Clay asked, a small chuckle following the question, as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his eyes hot on Tom. He could hear every breath the other man took, and swore he could hear how hard Tom's heart was beating, and felt his own heartbeat fall into sync.

"Before I completely lay myself on the line; before I tell you that I can't get you out of my head, and that I can't stop seeing you, no matter where I go." There it was; the words were out before Tom even knew and his lips snapped shut, forming into a hard, thin line. His heart was _pounding_ in his chest, and he felt dizzy; the room was suddenly moving, and his stomach was churning. Tom couldn't explain what he was feeling - was he sick? Nauseous because he'd just told Clay most of his feelings? His head shook, before he fell on his knees in front of Clay, his hands resting on the bed beside the young man's thighs.

Clay stared at Tom, eyes burning into his gaze, and his jaw clenched tight, sitting as still as a statue. He was still processing what he had heard, studying Tom carefully, waiting for him to say more, or maybe Clay was waiting to wake up from a dream-a _nightmare_.

Swallowing hard, Tom leaned up, his entire body shaking uncontrollably as he lifted a hand; gently brushing his fingertips along Clay's jaw as he closed the gap between the two of them. The air in the room grew warmer, and Tom swallowed harder, feeling as if his throat was dry, just before his bottom lip touched Clay's. The action made Clay pull back and shudder, a disgusted noise coming from his throat as he stared at Tom, shocked.

"What are you doing?" Clay asked, his hands moving to Tom's shoulders, to push him away, but he only seemed to hold the man in place. He could feel Tom shaking underneath his fingertips, and he shut his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. Clay could feel Tom's lips against his, it was barely there, a ghost against his flesh, but he could _feel_ it; could taste Tom, and could feel his hot breath against his own lips.

Before either men knew it, their lips were crushed together in a sloppy, spur-of-the-moment kiss, and Clay's grip tightened on Tom's shoulders. Soon Clay was pulling Tom to him; pulling his body on top of his own as he laid back on he bed, their legs tangling when they fell back, and Clay let out a sigh. What the noise meant, he had no idea; maybe it was contentment, maybe it was the fact that Tom was pressed against him, he didn't know, nor did he care. Clay's head was spinning from the kiss and he slid his hand to Tom's hair; tugging on it roughly, pulling their lips apart.

Both men were panting, and Clay's eyes instantly found Tom's, as he slipped his hand down the curve of his jaw; his skin brushing against Tom's stubble. Clay's body shuddered at the feeling and he did it again, reveling in the sensation, and let out a soft groan. There was something about Tom that drove Clay crazy, in every sense of the word, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He knew that, right now, Tom's lips drove him insane, and made him think about them being wrapped around his cock, and that thought made him rock hard.

"Tom, we.." Clay croaked, clearing his throat as he searched Tom's eyes for something-_anything_-that told him this was wrong; that he should shove Tom off, and run. He found nothing in those clear, hazel eyes, but a passion he had never seen, and a lust to match, and that made his heart ache-and his cock throb-even more.

"What?" Tom's voice was low, more husky than usual, and he flicked his eyes from Clay's, to his lips, wanting to lean down and kiss them again. But, instead, Tom waited for Clay to finish what he was saying, and held himself up on his hands. Both men stared at each other, into one another's eyes, for what seemed like forever, and neither of them had noticed their hips were pressed against each other. Tom also didn't notice that Clay was hard, throbbing, and that he was moving his hips slightly, rocking them back and forth.

"Nothing." Clay finally said, after moments of staring at Tom, and smiled; his hand gripping Tom's jaw as he leaned up, closing the gap between the two of them. For the third time that night, their lips were pressed together in another heated kiss, as Clay's free hand slipped onto Tom's back, pulling his body down. Tom let out a few noises-a moan, grunt, and a groan-as his cock pressed tightly against Clay's.

The taste of Tom made Clay insane - there were tiny hints of different flavors, and Clay could make out all of them; there was a small hint of mint, a lingering taste of whiskey, gin, and scotch, and some fruity taste that Clay couldn't quite put his finger on. _Oh well_, Clay thought to himself as he deepened the kiss, parting his lips and darting his tongue out, desperately seeking entrance into Tom's mouth. And he felt Tom's lips open up, slow and hesitant, and then felt his warm, wet tongue pressing against his own. 

Clay's hips bucked up against Tom, and he let out a strangled moan, leaning up more to fully slip his tongue into Tom's warm, inviting mouth. Their tongues moved together, almost as if they were dancing-or wrestling- and Clay let out a deep sigh, his hand moving up and down Tom's back. He could feel Tom trembling underneath his touch- or was it his own hand that was shaking? Maybe both, because Clay was nervous as fuck - he was nervous about kissing Tom, touching him, and hell, even getting _close_ to him.

All of those thoughts were thrown out once Tom pulled away and dropped his head, placing small kisses on Clay's neck. His skin _burned_ where Tom's lips fell, and it was too much to handle; he _needed_ Tom, more in that one moment than he had ever needed anyone in his entire life. Clay made his intentions clear by slipping his hands on to Tom's hips, moving them roughly against his, eliciting moans from both Tom, and his own throat.

"Clay," Tom whimpered out, both out of frustration and pleasure, and pulled away, settling on Clay's hips. He looked down at the beautiful, gorgeous, young man lying underneath him and he felt his heart ache, more so than before. Tom wasn't sure as to _why_ his heart was hurting, but he didn't like it either way. Clay's big, beautiful, green eyes stared up at Tom, and his hands fell away from his hips, now moving up to Tom's face.

"Tom, what's wrong?" Clay's voice seemed strange, oddly broken, as he spoke and stared up at the man whom he felt himself being attracted to; felt his heart being pulled to him. Tom shook his head, cringing, only slightly, away from Clay's touch, before finally settling against it, allowing the soft touch of Clay's fingertips.

"I don't deserve this," Tom's hand moved, in a sweeping motion, across the bed, over Clay. "I don't deserve you, Clay." Tom's voice was cracking, breaking as he spoke to Clay, and he could feel his heart breaking right along with it. He watched as Clay shook his head, and felt the young man move under him, until he was sitting up; face level with his own.

"Why?" The word was so simple, and came out so strong, but all Tom could do was stare helplessly into Clay's eyes. The room was quiet, the only sound that filled the room was their breathing, and the occasional noise or word being spoken. In that moment, while everything was quiet-serene- Tom studied Clay's eyes for the first time that night, and felt himself being sucked into them. Clay occupied every one of Tom's thoughts as of lately, and now he understood why - Clay was gentle, despite his size, and kind to him, which no one ever was now a days. He was also sweet, and could make him laugh, from what he could remember, anyway, but that wasn't all.. In his own way, Clay was just as fucked up as Tom, and that's what made them close, made the bond between them grow.

"Because.. I'm no good for you." That was Tom's excuse from now on, and would _continue_ to be his excuse; he was terrified that if he told Clay that he'd murdered his sister, Clay would hate him, and that was a risk he wasn't about to take. The silence in the room was shattered by Clay's warm, throaty laughter, and Tom watched as the young man shook his head, watched as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Tom, I lost my sister," Clay started off, clearing his throat and averted his eyes away from Tom's, watching his thumb glide, easily, across his skin. He didn't know where he was going with that sentence, but he opened his mouth anyway, and let the words flow:

"She was a pain in the ass, like little sisters are, you know?" Tom had shook his head because no, of course he didn't know how that was - he was an only child. Clay ignored it and pressed his palm flat against the side of Tom's neck, feeling the heat of his skin against his own. "But, I loved her, you know.. I put up with her boyfriends, her stupid friends.." Clay's voice cracked, yet again, and he tightly shut his eyes. "But, she's gone; my mother's gone, and they were the only family I had.. Tom," Clay's eyes snapped open, fixating on Tom's, and he smiled, "I don't care if you're crazy, unstable, or if you've killed people," Tom winced at that and averted his eyes from Clay's, "All I care about is that you're here, with me, and you haven't left me, at least not yet."

Clay took notice of Tom turning his head, and he moved his hand up, pulling Tom's attention back to him, just in time to see tears flood down his cheeks. Clay's fingers brushed just under Tom's eyes, wiping away what tears he could, and felt his heart sink slightly.

"What's wrong?" Clay's voice was low, almost a whisper, as he held onto Tom and kept brushing tears away. Tom just shook his head, pulling away from Clay's fingertips, and pulling out of his grasp, shuffling to his feet.

"We can't do this. I can't be your..." Tom took a second to breathe, to process his thoughts, and to stop the flow of tears before continuing, "I can't be your _everything_, Clay. Not when I'm so broken, and fucked.. and when I.." His voice fell short, and his head dropped, his attention turning to his boot-clad feet, and the ugly carpeting.

"What?" Clay's voice was louder as he stood up, suddenly hovering over Tom. "_Have_ you killed someone, Tom? Because if you have, it was the past - I won't.. I won't care, I just want you." His hand reached out, desperately, to touch Tom's, and when their skin touched, Tom yanked his hand away.

"What if I have? What if I've murdered _lots_ of people, and I can't remember a damned thing?" Tom's voice was broken, more so than before, and he looked up at Clay, looked into his eyes, choking out, "What if I want to change? Remember what I've done, remember the faces..." Tom stopped again, looking up at Clay with helpless, broken eyes. "But, what if I want to forget it all... and be with you?" His voice was barely a whisper this time, and he swallowed hard, feeling his heart sink deeper and deeper.


	5. Chapter 5

Clay stared at Tom, his breathing even, and his eyes studying Tom carefully - taking in every movement, every snap of his eyes, and every facial expression. He couldn't tell if Tom was _lying_, or being serious, but he found himself not caring either way. Clay moved closer to Tom, his hands lifting to either side of the other man's face, cupping his jaw, and cheek, gently.

"Tom, I don't give a _fuck_," Clay put emphasis on that word, smiling, "if you've done anything of the sort. That was the past, right?" He watched Tom, waiting for a nod of the head, a squeak of agreement, anything to indicate that yes, it _was_ in his past. When he got nothing from the man, Clay swallowed hard, slipping his fingertips over Tom's ear slowly.

"Well, I don't care if you did, and still _do_ that stuff..." Clay was hesitating, his fingers brushing the lobe of Tom's ear, his breathing speeding up. "I just care about you. I know it's wrong, and soon, but I do - I can't help it, and I'm not sorry. You're just... _here_, Tom. You listen, you make me smile and forget about Whitney, and my mother."

Tom's face dropped as he averted his eyes from Clay's, not wanting to look at him; feeling as if he didn't _deserve _to look at Clay. Two seconds after he looked down, Tom felt his chin being pulled up, and soon his eyes were back on Clay's.

"Look at me, Tom." Clay's voice was soft, kind, and gentle, and Tom sighed deeply, staring into Clay's eyes. Smiling, Clay nodded his head, ducking it down so he was eye-level with Tom, his fingertips trailing down Tom's jaw. "I'm just a normal man, there's nothing special about me.. but yet you chose to spend your time with me, some guy-a _stranger_-from Illinois.. Why would you do that if you didn't like me, or at least enjoy my company?"

Tom thought about the question for a moment, though he already knew the answer - he liked Clay; maybe he could even learn to _love _Clay someday. Shutting his eyes, Tom took in a deep breath as he wrapped his arms around Clay's waist, pulling himself closer to the young man. As he pressed against Clay, Tom heard a small noise come from Clay's throat - a laugh? A sigh? He couldn't tell because they all blurred and sounded the same to him.

"I like you, Clay." Tom choked out, pressing his face against Clay's chest, breathing in his scent, and taking in the sound of his every breath. Then he heard the noise again-the chuckle- erupt from Clay's chest, and then Tom felt arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, holding him tightly in place.

"Even though my head, and heart, are telling me to run... I like _you_, Tom; more than I really should." Clay chuckled, almost nervously, and felt Tom shift in his arms, pulling him tighter against his chest. Both of them were breathing softly and Tom concentrated on the rise and fall of Clay's chest as he counted each of his heartbeats. He had his fingers twisted in the fabric of Clay's shirt and he was pulling it, gently, as he tried wrapping his mind around everything that was happening.

Although Tom liked Clay, and had feelings for him, he still just wanted to get out of town - get away from Clay, his thoughts, feelings, and his _need _for Clay's attention, touch, and love. But a part of him just wanted to throw Clay on the bed, rip his clothes off, and fuck him like there was no tomorrow, and Tom couldn't decide which desire was greater.

The decision was made for him when Tom felt Clay pull away, and then felt warm breath against his lips. His eyes snapped open, and he was staring up, at Clay with a stupid grin on his face, before his lips were pressed against Tom's.

Tom's eyes shut again and he breathed in deeply, through his nose, as he softly kissed Clay back; testing the waters just before his hands were moving up, and soon were grabbing handfuls of Clay's hair. He tugged, harder than necessary, and pulled Clay down to him more, kissing his lips harder than before, making Clay chuckle softly, and grip Tom's sides roughly.

Parting his lips, Tom's tongue snaked between them and to Clay's, gently trying to pry them apart. Clay, getting the hint, slowly opened his lips for Tom, before wrapping them around his tongue and sucking lightly. The action made Tom shut his eyes tightly and groan, pressing himself against Clay harder.

Clay smiled against Tom's lips and opened his own, allowing Tom's tongue access into his mouth. He could feel it pressing against his own tongue, too warm, and not wet enough, and he lapped his tongue against Tom's, closing his eyes slowly. Clay's hands moved to Tom's hips and he held them tightly, backing up toward the bed and falling back on it once his shins hit the bed frame. His lips fell away from Tom's as he fell to the bed, his hands slipping down Tom's legs.

Tom was panting as he stood above Clay, his hands un-tangling from Clay's hair and sliding down his neck, resting on his shoulders. Both men were smiling and breathing heavily, as Tom gave Clay a small push, just enough to lay him back, before crawling on to his lap.

The atmosphere in the room changed; instead of there being tension between the two men, there was now nothing but lust, passion, and want. Clay's hands moved to Tom's ass and he pulled his hips down against his own, making Tom groan, which put a smile on his own face. Lifting his hips up, Clay moved his hard, covered cock against Tom's and groaned loudly.

"Fuck me, Clay," Tom whispered in Clay's ear and ran his hands along Clay's sides, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and pulling it up his skin. Clay shuddered and closed his eyes, roughly pulling Tom against him as he pushed his hips up. Every action Clay made caused Tom to moan and suck in a deep breath, which only made Clay harder.

Tom's lips found Clay's again and he kissed him, hard, while his hands slipped down his bare skin. He could feel Clay shake under his touch and he smiled against his lips, barely grazing his fingernails over Clay's exposed side. That made Clay _growl_, and he lifted his hands to Tom's neck, holding him in place as he kissed him roughly; his tongue fighting for entrance into Tom's mouth and, once granted access, slipped inside, roughly pushing against Tom's.

Groaning, Tom slipped his hands down to Clay's jeans and quickly found his zipper, tugging it down in one swift motion, before paying attention to the button. He quickly popped it and lifted his hips, pulling the baggy denim down Clay's legs before yanking them off and tossing them to the floor. He smiled down at Clay as his fingers danced along his bare thighs, barely skimming over his skin as Tom leaned down and kissed his lips softly.

Clay shivered under Tom's touch and breathed in deeply, exhaling through his nose as he kissed Tom gently, his hands sliding down over Tom's shoulders, his back, and eventually ending up on his ass. He gave it a rough pull, just enough to get a noise from Tom, and smiled against his lips; moving his hands around to the front of the denim, instantly finding Tom's zipper and pulling it down. After the zipper was down, Clay pushed the button of Tom's jeans and moved his hand down into the opening; palming Tom's cock gently as he bit his bottom lip.

He could feel Tom breathing softly against his mouth and he grinned, releasing Tom's bottom lip and lifted his free hand up, to push Tom's head back. Tom made a small noise, that sounded like a whimper, and Clay pressed his palm roughly against Tom's covered cock, as he leaned up; his lips brushing along Tom's exposed throat, making him shiver and whimper louder.

"I want you..." Clay's voice was shaky as he whispered in between laying kisses all along Tom's throat, "to fuck me.." He felt Tom swallow, and he kissed up, tracing his Adam's Apple with his tongue and felt his cheeks grow slightly warm. "Please?" Clay's voice was low and soft against Tom's skin, and he barely felt Tom's head nod once.

"Right now." Clay mumbled against Tom's Adam's Apple, before nipping it, gently, and kissing up over his chin, sighing as he felt the man's stubble against his lips. Tom barely shook while he hovered over Clay, listening to the words he was saying, and the _demand_ he had for wanting to be fucked.

Tom pulled away from Clay and stood up, kicking his boots off and pulling his jeans down, along with his boxers. He didn't look up to see Clay's reactions, or even to see if Clay was _watching_ him, because he already knew he was. Tom pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor, before he leaned over, taking the waistband of Clay's boxers between his teeth, and tugging it down slowly. As the fabric slid down his cock, Clay let out a sigh, then a moan, and slid his hand onto the back of Tom's head, tangling his fingers in his hair.

Smiling, Tom grabbed the waistband of Clay's boxers and tugged them down further, brushing the back of his fingers against Clay's thighs. Clay shivered against the soft fabric, and the feel of Tom's skin brushing against his own, and tugged Tom's hair harder, this time toward his own body.

"Tom.." Clay whined, his fingers twisting through Tom's hair even rougher as he pulled Tom's gaze up, onto his own. Biting his lip, Clay stared into Tom's eyes as he felt the other man's fingertips running up and down his thighs, stopping inches from his hardening cock. Tom chuckled and leaned up, crashing his lips against Clay's as he wrapped a hand around his cock, giving it a soft tug, pulling sounds of pleasure from Clay's throat.

As they kissed, Tom shut his eyes and stroked Clay's cock until it was fully hard before pulling his hand away, resting it on Clay's hip. Pulling away, Tom had flashbacks of the girl with long, brunette curls; her hair fanned out around her hair, bloody and sticking to the ground.

Tom pulled away from Clay, standing up and staggering back, hands moving to his face as he bit back a scream. He was thinking of her - _Whitney_ - while he was _trying _to fuck her brother and Tom felt his heart sink. Tom didn't pull his hands away from his face - not when Clay knelt beside him, and wrapped Tom in his arms.

"Clay," Tom's voice was muffled by his hands and he pulled them away, pressing his eyes against Clay's shoulder, trembling slightly. "I have something to tell you.." Tom swallowed hard as he pulled from Clay and walked toward the bed, stooping to grab his, and Clay's, boxers. Pulling on his own underwear, Tom tossed Clay his boxers and sat on the bed, moving a hand through his hair.

"What?" Clay asked, snapping the waistband of his boxers against his lower abdomen before pulling a chair in front of the bed; in front of _Tom_. Tom didn't look up when Clay sat in front of him, nor did he look up when he felt the other man's hands on his thighs, fingertips brushing along his skin. The feel of Clay's touch make Tom gag, his stomach churning and he covered his face with his hands again, breathing deeply against them.

"You're going to hate me.." Tom muttered against his hands, shaking his head back and forth; his breathing becoming shallow as he dropped his hands. Lifting his eyes, Tom locked his gaze on Clay, his eyebrows knit and forehead furrowed, wearing a confused look.

"I won't, Tom." Clay moved a hand to place it on Tom's jaw but he pulled away, causing Clay to drop his hand and lean away from Tom. There was a small chuckle coming from Tom's throat as he rested his arms on his knees and leaned his face against his hands, talking against them.

"Your sister, Whitney..." Tom started, his voice low and full of pain as he shut his eyes against the tears that rimmed them. "I've uh, been having dreams about her - nightmares, actually.." There was another broken, barely muffled chuckle as Tom lifted his face, eyes opening to fall on Clay and tears falling down his cheeks.

**A/N:** I'm so sorry that this is short, and that it ends in a cliffhanger. I should have a new, longer chapter in a few days. Oh, and I also apologize for the delay between chapters!


	6. Chapter 6

Clay stared at Tom, waiting for him to continue, his eyes moving over the older man slowly. He watched tears stream down Tom's face and lifted a hand, brushing them away with his thumb, offering the other man a warm smile. Shaking his head, Tom pulled away from Clay and slide down the bed, pressing his face against his hands once more. As he shut his eyes, Tom could see images of Whitney and he screamed against the palms of his hands.

"What kind of nightmares, Tom?" Clay's voice was soft as he turned in his seat, his eyes locked on the older man once more. He watched as Tom's body shook slightly, listening to the muffled sobs and screams that left his throat, and swallowed hard. Inside, Clay's heart was breaking for Tom, but at the same time he was curious to know why Tom was having dreams - _nightmares_- about his sister.

"You're going to hate me, you're going to fucking hate me.." Tom repeated the words over and over as more images popped into his head; the end of his pick-axe was dripping blood, and his hands were painted crimson. In front of him lay the body of a young woman, her chest ripped apart and bloodied, her still heart laying on her naked stomach. His stomach churned at the thoughts and he moved both of his hands up, gripping his hair tightly.

"I told you before, I'm _not_ going to hate you, Tom!" Clay was on the verge of screaming and he sighed deeply, running a hand down his face. "Just tell me, please. I'm sure it'll make you feel better.." He reached out to touch Tom's shoulder but the older man shrank away, his head turning, eyes burning on Clay.

"I know what happened to Whitney." The words were quiet and sincere, and more tears fell down Tom's face as he spoke them, his body shaking even more than before. All the while, Clay sat still, his eyes widening and his mouth gaping open. A million questions ran through his mind as fast as lightening, and he tried to get a grip on reality. '_I know what happened to Whitney,_' those words replayed themselves in Clay's mind and he shook his head, trying to rid himself of the questions and thoughts he had.

"What..." Clay started but paused to swallow hard, his eyes down and away from Tom's. "What h-happened to her..." His words were soft and barely audible, but Tom heard them and he let out another broken chuckle, moving one of his hands in front of him. Through the tears, he could see the image of a heart sitting in the palm of his hand and he laughed more; this laughter more maniacally than before. Clay didn't look up when he heard Tom laugh, only kept his eyes on the ugly carpet underneath their feet.

"I happened to her, Clay." The words were out before Tom could think about them and he looked up at Clay, all of his laughter ceasing the moment he looked at the younger man. On the outside, Tom was a wreck, but on the inside, he felt a million times better, and he wanted to keep telling the truth. "You know the legend, about the man that kills people near the mines, and removes their hearts?" The younger man nodded, but didn't look up as Tom spoke, his eyes shutting to keep tears in.

"Well, turns out you've been wanting to _fuck_ that legend." Tom laughed softly and turned, bringing one of his legs up onto the bed, tucking it under the other. "Your sister was out in the mines, and I..." He stopped and shook his head, dropping it as he ran a hand through his hair slowly, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "I don't really remember what happened, not consciously anyway. I see her in my dreams, running and screaming... I feel her _blood_ on my hands... I-"

Tom shut up when Clay stood, his fists clenched at either side of his body, and his head down. Tears poured from his eyes and Tom swallowed hard, standing in front of Clay, his hand out stretched to touch the young man. Once Tom's skin moved against his own, Clay opened his eyes and looked at him, one of his hands lifting before it collided with Tom's jaw. The older man fell back on the bed, cupping his jaw as he stared up at Clay, tears rimming his eyes once more.

"You killed my baby sister?" Clay _was_ screaming at this point, hot tears streaming down his cheeks as he stood in front of the bed, staring down at Tom. He didn't wait for the older man to answer before he wrapped a hand around his bicep and yanked him forward, their faces inches apart. "And you didn't think to tell me that before I came home with you? Or before I started _liking_ you?"

"Because I didn't think about it until you were about to fuck me!" Tom yelled back at Clay and moved a hand down, gripping his wrist tightly. "But at least I told you, instead of letting you live without knowing what happened to her," he paused for a second before his voice got softer, "I'm sorry, Clay.." Tom lifted his hand from Clay's wrist to touch his jaw lightly, and the young man held his posture before pushing Tom away from him, turning abruptly.

"Is that what you said to her? _'I'm sorry for killing you?'_ Did you ever _once _stop to think what liking you is doing to me now? I almost fucked someone who has killed before - and I don't even know how many other victims there are!" Clay was shaking from anger and he bent down, grabbing his clothes before yanking them on. Once his shirt was over his head, he looked at Tom and swallowed hard, shaking his head slowly.

"Clay, _come on_, I'm sorry... I..." Tom was at a loss for words as he sat back, watching Clay get dressed, and wishing he hadn't told him. In that moment, Tom wished that he had never _touched_ a hair on Whitney's head, and he hated himself. _I don't blame him_, he thought to himself and sighed deeply, pushing off the bed to stand up beside Clay. "Look, I don't blame you, Clay. I would hate myself right now too, but you like me, you can't deny that.." Tom walked around so that he was standing in front of Clay, a small smile on his face.

"Get out of my way, and give me..." Clay sighed and rolled his eyes, shutting them a moment later before dropping his head. "Give me some time to process all of this, and... get over the initial shock of it, please?" He opened his eyes and looked up, his eyes locking on Tom, who was nodding his head, the smile gone.

"Alright, I'll give you some time, but..." Tom walked around Clay and to the nightstand, opening the drawer before pulling a pen and a notepad out. He scribbled his phone number down and tore the sheet of paper away from the others before walking back to Clay. "Here's my cell number - call me when you decide you want to see me again, please?" Tom held the piece of paper out, watching hesitation flash over Clay's face before he took it and shoved it into his jeans pocket. "Thank you," Tom whispered, lifting his hand to touch Clay's face once more, before the young man was pulling away and walking toward the door.

He didn't turn his back until he heard Clay open the door and then close it, waiting a full five seconds before turning around and looking at the door. His heart felt heavy and he sighed, walking toward the bathroom and shutting the door once he was inside. Tom opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed his medication before shutting the cabinet. He looked at the bottle, turning it over between his fingers and listening to the pills roll around on the inside. Sighing, Tom twisted the cap and pulled it away, turning to the toilet. He lifted the lid and dumped the rest of his pills into the bowl before flushing it, watching as the medication disappeared.

Turning to walk out of the bathroom, Tom gave himself a look in the mirror and sighed, hating the man looking back at him. In that moment, he named everything he hated about himself; his hands, which had taken lives, and his mouth which he used to tell lies, to tell on himself. Those same hands were the ones he'd used to touch Clay, and his mouth was used to kiss him. Sighing loudly, Tom walked out of the bathroom and to the bed, falling on it and closing his eyes. All he could see was Clay, and his heart hurt from the image, his head hurt from _seeing_ it, but yet he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes.

He turned over onto his side and pressed the side of his face against his pillow, placing his hand underneath his cheek. Tom sighed again and swallowed hard, allowing sleep to take over; letting all the thoughts and memories he'd pushed away to resurface, allowing them to mingle with thoughts of Clay. Every thought in his mind hurt and made his heart sink lower, falling into the empty pit in his gut. But Tom didn't open his eyes. He curled up within himself and welcomed the memories; welcomed the heartache and the pain with a warm embrace, until he finally fell asleep.

_He was back in the mines, in his gas mask and overalls, and he could feel the same familiar weight of the pick-axe in his hand. Tom breathed deeply, exhaling slowly and listening to the sound his breath made as it exited to mask. It was the only noise around and Tom smiled from behind the mask, his grin hidden from the rest of the world; his identity unknown. He began to walk, feeling the weight of his legs pulling him along a familiar path, one that led him to the mines. The smile grew wider as Tom looked at the mines under the moonlight; he walked further until he heard a noise. He stopped dead in his tracks. The rustling of leaves to his right. His head snapped toward it and he breathed heavily, waiting for the noise again._

_The sound of dry leaves crunching filled Tom's ears and his senses were on high as he turned fully and walked toward the noise. The more he walked, the louder the noise got, and he could see the image of a human being standing in the middle of all the trees. As Tom got closer, the image in front of him got clearer, and he could make out a man's face. Hazel eyes shone under the moonlight and Tom's breath hitched in his throat, the pick-axe in his hand now heavier than before._

_He tried to step back, but his legs pulled him forward. The sound of leaves crunching underneath his feet - underneath Clay's - filled his ears and his heart raced. He wanted to turn back, to run back to the motel, but instead he got closer to Clay. Close enough to feel fear rolling off of him. That fear only made his mind and body more alert, and hungrier for the kill. Before Tom knew it, he was right behind Clay, the axe lifted in the bright moonlight, ready to come down on the young man's skull._

_Clay turned and their eyes locked. Clay smiled at Tom and he couldn't control the axe; couldn't control his body movements at all. He tried to scream, tried to throw the axe to the side, but it was too late. The blade came down on Clay's shoulder and Tom screamed internally as he pulled the blade out, looking at the blood in the bright light. But Clay stayed vertical, his smile never wavering, and his body straight, not weakening at all._

_"Why did you do it, Tom?" Clay asked, the smile on his face never leaving even as Tom's axe came down again. Once. Twice. Three times, and Clay was still standing. Tom was panting and he wanted to cry. Wanted to turn and run away from Clay, and he wanted to kill himself for hurting the young man. Blood flowed from Clay's shoulder and Tom watched as the pick-axe came down again, right to the middle of Clay's chest. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of metal hitting bone, and Tom's stomach churned from the sound._

_"Why?" Clay's voice was louder this time and Tom shook his head, trying to lift a hand to the mask. He wanted to pull it off, wanted to show himself to Clay, and he wanted out. The overalls were getting hot, and so was the mask. The axe fell from his hands, landing on the ground and painting the leaves red. Tom looked down at the blade, watching as blood dripped off the edge and onto the dark foliage underneath it. When he looked back up, Clay was gone and his heart was pounding in his chest._

_He turned._

_Clay was behind him, the axe in hand, and a grin on his face. Blood poured from all the wounds Tom had inflicted on him and he swallowed hard, bringing his hands up. "Why, Tom?" Clay asked again, his eyes burning on Tom's, and the older man shook his head. He moved his hands to the mask, pulling it off and sucking the cold night air into his lungs._

_His mouth opened and he tried to speak. Nothing came out but a scream. A gurgling scream, and he felt blood pool in his throat, his mouth. He looked down, and the axe was still in Clay's hand. The blade still lying against his thigh. Blood filled Tom's mouth quickly and he turned his head, tried to spit it out, but nothing came out. More screams escaped his throat and soon they died into tearless sobs._

_"She didn't do anything to you, Tom. Why did you kill her? Did she scream for you to stop? For you to let her live?" Clay's voice was louder now, and when Tom turned and looked at him, the smile was gone; replaced with a sneer. Before he knew it, Clay was coming at him with the axe and his legs wouldn't move. They wouldn't move him backwards, and he felt the blade tear into his chest. His screams echoed throughout the woods and all he could see was Clay's expressionless face as he fell to the ground._

_Clay hovered over him, tugging the axe down his chest, making the cut longer. Blood poured down his stomach, drenching his overalls, and it pooled in his throat once more. This time it was real; Tom choked on the crimson liquid that quickly filled his throat and mouth, coughing. Before he closed his eyes, Tom could see Clay and Whitney, along with every other one of his victims. They were all smiling at him. Bloody smiles. They all had gaping holes in their chests, save for Clay._

_When Tom's eyes closed for the final time, he felt the life drain out of his body. He could feel himself slipping away and he allowed Death to take him. Allowed his Fate to embrace him, and his head turned to the side, blood trickling out of his mouth. He lay motionless as each of his victims disappeared, one by one, leaving Clay alone with his body. Before he left, Clay cut Tom's chest open all the way and removed his heart, throwing it to the ground before he, too, disappeared into the abyss._

Tom awoke on his bed, gasping for breath and looking down at his chest, examining himself for blood. He found nothing on his chest or stomach - no blood, scrapes, or gaping wounds. Swallowing hard, Tom looked at his hands and turned them over, examining them quickly. When he was satisfied that he _hadn't_ gone out and killed anyone in the middle of the night, Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. When he was a bit more awake, Tom grabbed his phone and looked at the time. He read the date and realized that he had been passed out for almost two days, and that it was eight o'clock in the morning.

He also noticed that he had a few missed calls and a voice mail. With a heavy heart, and nervous fingers, Tom dialed the number to his answering machine and punched in his password. After listening to the robotic female voice, Tom punched in another number that allowed him to listen to his voice message.

When the message started, Tom's heart dropped at the sound of Clay's voice, and he tightly clutched the phone. The message ended and another played. Again, it started with Clay's voice, and Tom could feel tears rimming his eyes. The messages stated that Clay wanted to see Tom, as soon as possible, and for him to call back.

Tom pulled the phone away from his head and looked at the time of his last missed call, which had only been twenty minutes prior to his waking. Swallowing hard, Tom hit the call button and brought the phone to his head, pressing the receiver against his ear tightly. The phone rang three times before Clay picked up, and Tom breathed in deeply.

"Tom?" Clay's voice was soft and Tom noted that it sounded heavy with sleep, almost as if Clay hadn't slept in days. At the sound of Clay's voice, Tom smiled and ran his free hand through his hair, nodding slowly.

"Yeah, it's me. Sorry I couldn't answer you, I was asleep..." Tom breathed easily as he spoke to Clay, listening to him chuckle on the other line. The sound made Tom himself laugh and he stood up, walking toward the bathroom, holding the phone tightly.

"S'okay, Tom," Clay yawned out and Tom felt is heart throb dully, knowing that he probably _hadn't_ slept in days. "I was wondering if I could come over, and talk." Tom's heart went from throbbing painfully to beating rapidly and he stopped in front of the mirror, looking at himself.

"Uh, yeah. Of course you can come over, Clay." Tom's answer was quick and loud and he winced at his eagerness, turning his back to the mirror. He leaned back against the sink and listened to Clay laugh softly, before yawning again. "Alright, I'll be over in about an hour," Clay whispered and Tom nodded before muttering a simple, _'okay,' _before hanging up.

Roughly an hour later, Tom heard a knock on his door and went to answer it, straightening his clothes out. When he opened the door, his eyes fell on Clay and he noticed the dark bags under his eyes, and the way he just _looked _like he hadn't slept much, or at all. Without a word, Tom motioned for Clay to come in and shut the door once he had accepted the invitation. Turning around, Tom saw Clay sitting on the edge of the bed, his head down and his hands in front of him, fingers laced.

"I'm sorry, Clay. You have no idea how badly I wish things were different..." Tom walked toward Clay and fell to his knees, sitting back on his heels. Clay didn't look up, and it seemed as though he didn't even _acknowledge_ that Tom was there, but that didn't stop the oldest from talking. "Look, I like you, and I know it was wrong for me to keep that information from you, but..." He paused to sigh and look down at the carpet, picking at a hole in his jeans. "I thought if I didn't think about it, it wouldn't be true, and then you showed me her picture... and all hell broke loose in my head."

Clay looked up and stared at Tom before dropping his eyes back onto the carpet, watching as he nudged the floor with the toe of his boot. Tom sighed and closed his eyes, pressing his hand against the carpet, fingers digging into the fabric. He was upset with himself, and angry at Clay for not even _looking _at him, let alone not talking. With another heavy sigh, Tom decided that he would do all the talking.

"I only do these kinds of things when I stop taking my medication, but it also stops when I'm around you. You're like, my psychopathic side's Kryptonite, or something." Tom laughed softly and looked up at Clay, their eyes locking for the first time. "I am truly sorry. I wish I hadn't done that, but you have to think - if I didn't, we would have never met..." Their gaze held and Tom smiled lightly, quirking a brow at Clay, who sat motionless and quiet.


End file.
